[Intro] Ayy, man, that choppa having acne, a bump on my stock (Ayy, let that shit ride, Tav) And that Glock, that ho bipolar, a switch on my— Uh, mm, mm, mm, a switch on my— I just be on that
[Verse] Ayy, say, that chop', that ho got acne, a bump on my stock And that glizzy thing bipolar, a switch on my Glock Ayy, .40 walking with it stuffed, can't pull out my knot Time and money, you don't know it, all of my watch Ayy, all up that wrist, I got dog shit I know niggas hatin', I'm in the mall with it Please reach for my chain, I'ma get self defense In N.Y. four, five days, posted up selling nicks Ayy, posted up selling shit, nigga, I'll sell a fit She got a OnlyFans, bet, come here, I'll sell a bitch And if you want you somethin', don't come 'round talkin' 'bout celibate And lil' bruh trap be doing good, throw him some extra shit Send me some money and a addy, I'll mail you this My big brother, he be cooking, you might smell some shit Can you smell the rock? It cooking This a Dior jacket, normally Aeropostale hoodies My last pay look like Ashton Kutcher I'm having dog shit, sell you a master bully So much motion, save yo' Frenchie's Want you a twenty? Nigga, stop spending Wanna learn how to cook? I know a chemist Nigga, my dad and 'nem been with me, no, yap Scrape gang, scrape the pot Go make a stop, then hit up the block Or grab some work and set up shop These niggas bankroll going down like Jock You can tell when a nigga lost, he start buying Jay The nigga just was pouring Wock', but now he sippin' Quagen Nobody told you about all them designer shoes anyway Can't buy designer drugs if you ain't out here getting paid Now you broke as fuck, tryna keep up with the fucking wave Nigga, I can go designer or go D-boy, pop out hood baby Dickie suit with the Nikes on, two fifty in the Styrofoam Pull some shit out a shoebox, so grown, have a whole mind gone Plain Rollie another time zone, this that, "Sir, yes, sir" When you sippin' real drank, sometimes your words get slurred Carti' got my vision blurred Ballin', step back shoot like Curry Like that, bitch, hang up my jersey Icy, bitch, my wrist McFlurry
[Chorus] Don't ask me where I'm at and don't text back, gon' have me worried Nigga pulled up and slowed down and I upped my .30 I ain't see 12, they told me drop my gun and I jumped the curb I ran they ass all way to Whalen, all right by 3rd And on my kids, all this shit facts, I ain't making no words You seen Yay come through in that 'Cat, all making a serve Probably on the next street, yo' bitch wanna neck me High top Ricks cost seventeen, these kicks high like Jet LeeTeksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
